Running out of air
by Olivehide
Summary: Newt had never been out of the glade. He was all rolling green fields and soft fertile soil. A pastoral guy. A plaid and leather boots guy, Thomas liked to think. So Thomas was completely taken aback when Newt asked to go running with him. Thomas x Newt / Newtmas (Image by DafnaWinchester on deviant art)


For Mrin

Newt had never been out of the glade. He was the kind of guy that would find his own comfortable space, nestle down, make it pretty, then keep it that way until he died happy. He was all rolling green fields and soft fertile soil. A pastoral guy. _A plaid and leather boots guy,_ Thomas liked to think.

So Thomas was completely taken aback when Newt asked to go running with him.

"Wait what? You, _want_ to go outside? In the maze?"

"I was just talking it over with Minho-" He shifted his foot, leant onto his better leg,

"-and I thought, well maybe it's time for me to get some bloody courage."

"Newt, you saved my life, don't feel like you need to prove yoursel- "

"- _I know_. I know Tommy but it's not about that. I want to." He looked earnest; His honey-brown eyes seeped with conviction. _Stop looking at me like that,_ Thomas half-wished.

"Well if Minho's ok with it, if you really want." Newt's face broke into a smile.

"Hey now don't underestimate what it's like out there. It's crazy, like really fucking scary when you turn a corner and there's no more glade, just walls and weird noises- "

"-I can handle it, Tommy." Again he was serious. It was kind of hot actually.

"Ok."

For some reason, Thomas felt nervous. He'd ran this maze so many times, everyday in fact, but his heart felt so close to shooting out of his mouth. It'd just be him and Newt. _Him and Newt._ There it was, the booming in his ears; like a constant reminder that Newt was standing a foot's distance from him, waiting for the maze to open so they could run away for a day. The stone walls began to hum and vibrate.

"You really ready for this?" Thomas wasn't really asking, and Newt didn't really reply; they just looked at each other.

"Just follow me, ok?"

Newt nodded, smiled. _God he smiled too much_.

The doors chugged slowly, painfully, open. When the path was clear, Thomas heard Newt breathe in sharply.

Then they were gone. Sprinting down the long, narrow corridor of stone and uncertainty. They took a right, then left, it didn't really matter. They were running together. Even though he couldn't see him, even though he didn't have the breath to talk, he felt safe with Newt right behind him. He wanted to face him and hold his hand so badly. He wanted to tell him how he pretended Minho was Newt when they ran together everyday. He wanted so many things. So many things that began with 'Newt'.

They ran for roughly 20 minutes, then Thomas noticed that Newt's strides were losing their rhythm and decided it was time for a break. He hadn't looked at Newt the entire time, and just now realised how _exhausted_ he looked. Newt had slumped to the ground and was drenched in sweat, heaving in and out uncontrollably. His hair was wet and slack, it stuck to his forehead, and his shirt was clinging tightly to his chest. The fabric dipped and curved about every muscle, capturing every hollow and every bump of Newt's torso beautifully. Thomas concentrated on the rise and fall of his body for a moment, and then realised Newt was actually a conscious human being who was looking right at him.

"Sorry I, I didn't realise you were so-", He gestured to Newt and his glorious, drenched physique,

"- I was just as worn out my first time, my first time running"

Newt ran his fingers through his hair, unstuck his shirt and began to waft it. He smirked.

"Me? Tired? I'm insulted, you slinthead." He began to stand up but swayed and sunk back to the floor,

"Guess I'm pretty bloody knackered then!" He let out a breathless laugh, and patted the ground next to him.

"Si'down Tommy, you look buggered". _I am_ , Thomas thought, _but that's only because you make me so weak._ He slid down the wall and landed surprisingly close to Newt; their shoulders were touching, sticking together with their sweat.

"Didn't even - feel my limp this whole time" Newt said between breaths.

"All in your head - Minho called it."

"Shut up. Well, maybe." He was smiling again, there were drips on his lips.

Then they were silent. They stayed like that for a while. Silent. Taking in each other's breaths. Feeling the sticky heat, oozing from their bodies.

It was nice, and then Newt's hand was in his.

Newt had threaded it through himself, and Thomas almost let out a chuck-like squeal, but didn't. _This is actually happening_ , he thought. But he didn't know what to do next. He'd played this through his head so many times before, fantasised that Newt would want him as much as he did Newt, but of course it could never really happen. _But it had_. Should he say something? Make another move? Push Newt to the floor and forget how fucked up their lives were.

"It _is_ pretty scary out here" Newt breathed, breaking the silence, he seemed completely unfazed by what he'd done with his hand. Maybe it was nothing more than a friendly thing for Newt, maybe he'd held Minho's hand plenty of times before. Thomas realised he was being too quiet.

"Yeah..." Thomas said finally,

"I guess it's the walls, and the grievers" He added. He didn't know what to do. Was holding hands a regular thing in the glade? It seemed pretty gay.

"Think I'm more afraid of being stuck" Newt said, he had tightened his grip ever so slightly, Thomas could feel it.

"I get afraid…" He began, and then he was looking right at him, with those _eyes_. All silky smooth and honey suckle, the kind of colour you could drizzle into your mouth.

"I get afraid, when you leave us. When you piss off and leave for the whole day."

"Newt…"

"Everyday."

Then Thomas was squeezing his hand so tightly, he'd never known. Newt was always so happy, always smiling and level headed. Thomas never thought about Newt back at the glade, pacing up and down, worry about _him_.

"You got your breath back yet?" Newt was already letting go of his hand, he was already getting to his feet. _Stop_. Thomas stood up.

"Wait, Newt" What was he doing? Before he knew it he had taken back Newt's hand, and forced it onto the wall. His other hand had whipped onto the wall too, up by Newt's ear, enclosing him. Newt took in a harsh breath,

"Thomas-" Newt's free hand had clung to the neck of Thomas' shirt, He pulled him closer. They were so close. Their noses were touching. Thomas could feel the warmth of Newt's breath, could feel his sticky hair pressed against his own. His body was burning, and his mind was pretty much doing every kind of somersault.

And again, they were still. Caught in each other, feeling each other.

Thomas wasn't even looking at Newt; he figured his honey-brown eyes were meant for subtler times. Instead he was staring at his mouth, his _lips_. They looked so soft, slightly parted and glossed with moisture. They looked alive, lying in wait like they'd lash out at him. _He wanted them to_.

"Thom-" Newt breathed again, but Thomas caught his lips, _shuck it_. They tasted just like he'd imagined, soft, pillowy, with a hint of basil. _Newt loved seasoning._ He was kissing him, and Newt was letting him. He was letting him actually feel his mouth like he'd wanted for so long. Seeing him everyday, seeing his eyes, his lips, and wishing they were all for him. _Now they were,_ and he could tell Newt was smiling, he could feel the crease of his mouth brushed up against his face. He could feel his rough, sun stained skin, a few prickles of new hair on his chin. He could feel his entire being. It was so fucking good.

Newt's hand had shifted up to Thomas' hair now, fingers entangling themselves and twisting and pulling with need. Thomas decided to move with him, he shifted his hand down to Newt's waist and somehow pushed them even closer together. Their chests were stuck, plastered into each other, and all the while they were kissing; Thomas was surprised at how little air they needed, how long they'd been doing this. Their jaws shifted in rhythm, like their mouths were dancing, tongues twirling about inside. It was like silky, sleepy poetry. Like nothing Thomas had ever experienced.

But _God,_ it was such a hot fucking day.


End file.
